


I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

by bookishandi



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:21:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookishandi/pseuds/bookishandi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's over 18 months between the afternoon Erskine recruits on Steve Rogers and the day he kisses Peggy Carter goodbye. This is my attempt to fill in the blanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liquid Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve ponders the states of courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first in a series of "missing moments" between Steve and Peggy. As seems to be the case for many fans of Steve and Peggy, the end of _Agent Carter_ through me for a loop. Not because I didn't like it, but because hearing Peggy call Steve "my darling" made me rethink their relationship...and cemented the idea that the tragedy of their relationship wasn't that they were an almost--but that they were, and then they were torn apart. So here it is: my attempt to fill in those moments we never got to see.  
>  I'm not necessarily trying to write a fully functioning plot in its own right--just writing around and into what we do get to see in _Captain America_.

_June 1943_

He doesn’t drink much; he’s vulnerable enough sober. He tried fighting drunk once. He was trying to avoid the fight, really, trying to ignore the fathead waxing unpoetic about “the female kind.” Before he knew it, he’d downed two whole beers when the jerk said something particularly rude about nurses, and it struck a chord so raw Steve almost gasped. He was struck by the bright idea the booze might have some sort of topsy-turvy effect on him. It didn’t.

His left pinky finger still bends a little funny. 

He wanted an excuse, to call it liquid courage so if he failed he could blame it on the hard stuff. If two beers in the course of an hour got his legs wobbling, how far gone would he have been with those three fingers of schnapps Erskine _almost_ gave him?

He finds himself contemplating his left pinky, wondering if it would be worse to pretend he was drunk or to make the walk stone-cold sober. A glance at the clock reveals it’s getting late, and he can’t put it off any longer. He shakes himself, stands quickly (a bit too quickly, actually, he almost hyperextends his knee), and stalks off through the hallway.

Watching through the front window for the night patrol, Steve wonders at how eerie the quiet is. They'd been sending some extra personnel home since Phillips and Erskine agreed on Steve's nomination, moved nurses and soldiers back to their home units. Inside, he feels like a tornado—outside him’s like a ghost town. With no patrol in sight, he darts off toward the officers’ dorm.

He feels rather heroic with all the starting and stopping, sidling up to corners to watch for patrols. He contemplates a daring shoulder-roll between two tents, but reminds himself he’s not yet Steve Rogers: Super Soldier. Nope, he’s still Steve Rogers: asthmatic geek. This gives him pause—what the hell is he doing?

He’s making the most of what might be the last night of his life is what he’s doing.

With that thought, he drops the act and walks around to the northwest side of the dorm, and sighs in relief. The second floor window, third from the front, glows yellow in the night. He grabs a few pebbles from the side of the dirt road through camp and moves closer. After a third toss, he manages to hit the window.

There’s no response, so he tosses another. He’s pleased to get two in a row, but has no time to revel before the glass is thrust up.

“Bloody hell, I’ve no time for…” Agent Peggy Carter’s head pops out of the window like one of those pop-up targets in a Coney Island shooting gallery. Steve wonders whether he’s damned himself before he’s begun, but she stops her tirade short when she sees him. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve shuffles his feet, studies the marks they make in the dirt. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s quite all right. Though you could’ve knocked on the door,” Peggy crosses her arms and props herself on the ledge.

“I…didn’t think…” Steve shrugs. “Didn’t seem proper.”

“Nor is throwing pebbles at a lady’s window like some sort of Brooklyn Romeo,” He can’t see her face clearly, but he swears he can hear the smile on her voice.

“True,” he takes a few small steps toward her window so he can see her properly. “I, uh, couldn’t sleep. Saw your light on. Thought I’d…throw rocks.” He can’t help chuckling at himself.

“I understand. I should be sleeping, too” Peggy says. “I’m scheduled to retrieve you at 0630.”

“It’s just, I figured…I wanted to say…” He feels his broken pinky and pretends his veins are pulsing with liquid courage. “I like you, Agent Carter.”

“I quite like you, too, Steve Rogers.” Her bemused expression embarrasses him. He’s been too bold. “Though I wouldn’t go saying your goodbyes just yet. You’re in good hands.”

“Oh, I know. I just…figured I’d say…you know,” he stuffs his hands in his pockets, he smiles up at her as brightly as he can. “Thanks.” She nods, unable to resist smiling back. He thinks—and he’ll allow himself to take it as truth for now—a blush rises to her cheeks.

“Go to sleep, soldier,” she commands, disappearing into the window a moment later. Steve salutes, savoring the softened edges of her order; it’s gentler and more intimate than she was only hours ago in training. He holds that sweetness in his heart as he heads back to his bunk.

If he were a bigger man, a bolder one, he’d have tried to beg a good luck kiss.

Maybe tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of the whole fic comes from a song that was quite popular in 1941, one of the most popular versions was by a band called The Ink Spots (though I prefer Horace Heidt's version). Here're the lyrics:
> 
> I don't want to set the world on fire  
> I just want to start a flame in your heart  
> In my heart I have but one desire  
> And that one is you no other will do  
> I've lost all ambition for wordly acclaim
> 
> I just want to be the one you'd love  
> And with your admission that you'd feel the same  
> I'll have reached the goal I'm dreaming of believe me  
> I don't want to set the world on fire  
> I just want to start a flame in your heart


	2. At Your Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy and Steve chat about changes, or the lack of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place between Kruger's death and the scene in the SSR lab.

She’s the first person with any idea what’s happened to find him. He’s on his knees, staring blankly at Kruger, oblivious to the growing crowd of civilian gawkers. The others aren’t too far behind, but she’d been close enough on Steve’s heels to guess Kruger’s destination and gain a few moments’ advantage.

She shouts, clearing the crowd enough that she can reach him. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t move. “Steve,” she asks just above a whisper, “Are you all right?” There’s blood on his left side, but it seems to have stopped; his fingers are all straight and he doesn’t seem to be favoring one leg over the other. He’s breathing normally, which is, all things considered, extraordinary. After another moment of silence she crouches down, bringing her face level to his. “Steve.” This time it’s not a question; she rests her hand on his newly impressive shoulder and squeezes.

Mouth still slack, his eyes refocus and find hers. He nods once. For a brief moment, she worried something had gone horribly wrong with the experiment, but when he finally looks up, she sees _him_. He’s still there. The reaction is nothing more than understandable shock.

Peggy looks down to Kruger, see the dried flecks of foam and the gap in his teeth. “Cyanide?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice cracking like he hasn’t spoken in years. “I think so, anyway.”

Her palm is still rests on his shoulder. Twenty minutes ago, she could’ve grabbed his entire shoulder and shaken him. Now her hand looks small. His voice, though, sounds largely the same.

“Are _you_ all right?” she asks again, now that he’s returned to the present.

“I guess so,” he answers, his lips curling into a familiar lopsided grin. “I mean, look at me.” She can’t help smiling back, relief flooding to her fingers and toes. As she’s helping him to his feet, Phillips and the others round the corner.

 

* * *

 

She wants to see him, to get a chance to speak with him in private before the inevitable media frenzy. They’ve managed to turn a feeble young man—how many times was he 4-Fed again?—into and bloody superhero. Howard may be a petulant man-child, but he is a damned genius. 

She finds Steve sitting on his bunk, examining his hands intently enough he doesn’t notice her until she leans heavily on the door frame. When he hears the dull thud, he looks up and stands in one swift motion.

“Agent Carter,” his nod is as stiff as his posture.

“Please, Steve. I’m not your superior officer,” Peggy laughs gently. “And you can call me Peggy, especially when there are no soldiers about.” Steve relaxes, and she swears he’s blushing. It’s impossible to ignore the differences the serum worked on him; what surprises her is how much the same he is. His voice has barely changed, his body language no different than it was yesterday. He _feels_ the same; Peggy doesn’t have a word for it—perhaps something like his aura, though she doesn’t take up with that sort of mysticism. This, even more than his physical survival, relieves her.

“And when there are?” Steve asks, smirking.

“I can’t have them thinking I’ve gone soft now, can I?” she answers with a soft smile. “Do you mind if I sit?” Steve’s face goes red and he scrambles over himself to clear the small pile sewing supplies from the rickety wooden chair beside his cot. He waits until she is seated before he sits on the cot himself, like the well-trained gentleman he’s always been.

He picks up a small box full of buttons from the pile. “Would you believe I went through three sets of buttons getting used to these hands?”  he says, shaking the buttons idly. “Lucky one of the nurses had a kit.”

“It’s good work,” Peggy leans in to examine his handiwork. The stitches are neat, tidy, and solid. “I’m impressed at how quickly you’ve re-discovered your fine motor skills.”

“Tell that to the bridal shop,” Steve laughs, “Or my shirt.” She settles back into her chair, crosses her legs. Steve relaxes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. She watches his hands a moment as he rubs them together. They are much larger than they used to be, obviously. But like the rest of Steve, they haven’t loss their sense of finesse. She remembers watching him run on the street, discovering the length of his limbs and finding his pace. He looked more like a giant cat than a rhinoceros, carefully controlled power rather than brute strength.

She enjoys this moment of quiet, considering the madness of the last 24 hours. People pass in the halls, muffled conversations rise and fall with footsteps. Steve seems to feel the same; he’s not fidgeting or nervous. He does, however, seem distant.

“Steve,” Peggy asks, breaking the quiet. “How are you doing, really?

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, purposely avoiding Peggy’s look. “Fine, I guess.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes, “I wish you would tell me; I’m not asking to hear my own voice.” She leans forward, reaching out to lightly rest her fingertips his forearm. “I really want to know.”

Steve’s gaze moves to her fingers; he contemplates them for a moment then slowly looks up to meet her eyes. With a sigh and a small smile, he leans back, moving his hands to grasp the edge of the mattress. “Physically, I feel great. Mentally, I’m pretty calm. But…” he shrugs, the slight whiteness in his knuckles betraying the supposed calm. “That scares me. I feel like I should be scared. Confused. And I am that, a little. But mostly I just feel…like me.”

“That’s not a bad thing, you know. I’d dare say it’s exactly what Erskine would’ve wanted to hear.” Peggy absently rubbing her thumb along the pads of her fingers. She imagines they felt warmer after touching him, wonders whether his body temperature would run hot as a result of his transformation.

“Sorry, by the way, about earlier.”

“What?” Peggy jumps. She hadn’t realized how far into reverie she’d fallen.

“When I messed up your shot?” Steve chuckles. She rolls her eyes, purposely exaggerating her annoyance. “I mean, I figured you would jump out of the way in time, I wanted to intercept the car. I was faster than I expected and…I couldn’t stop. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No,” her answer is clipped, certain. She watches Steve deflate, then softens: “And you needn’t apologize.”

“Sure I do,” Steve’s face hardens. “I know what it’s like when you wanna do something but everyone says you can’t. When you just wanna prove them wrong and show them what you can do.” Peggy’s breath catches, in part from Steve’s honesty and in part from the intensity of his expression. “In my case, they were usually right. But you had it under control. Still, I can’t promise I won’t jump in if you look like you’re in trouble.”

“I assure you I can handle myself,” Peggy looks away to hide her red rising in her cheeks. He’s cut to the core of her and she feels unprotected, vulnerable, and needs to rebuild her defenses with cutting retorts. Steve surprises her…by agreeing.

“I know that, you were incredible out there.” His expression is genuine, proud.  His smile grows when she catches his eye, but he shyly looks away. “Never hurts to have someone at your back, though.”

“No,” Peggy answers, her voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t.”

“I’ve got this buddy, Bucky—Bucky Barnes. He always had mine when we were growing up,” Steve stops suddenly, chuckling. “He’s out on the front. He’s got no idea.”

“He's in for a shock,” Peggy laughs, too, pulling a face in Steve’s direction. A moment of peaceful quiet falls between them.

“I’ll watch your back, Agent…Peggy.”

“Thank you. Though I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”

“Plenty,” Steve answers without hesitation. He shrugs, “But like I said, I like you. Consider it a perk of being the super soldier’s friend.”

“Speaking of,” Peggy responds, a little too quickly. The real mystery of Steven Rogers is that he’s such an open book—there’s not a hint of guile or bluster about him. His genuineness is refreshing, but it’s also surprisingly unnerving. “I believe you’re wanted in the lab.”


	3. Unmentionables

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve stops by Peggy's quarters to say goodbye.

It had only been an hour since Phillips announced they’d be leaving for London, but Steve found out from a few grunts the plane would be leaving in two hours. He wanted to have a moment to speak with her, to thank her for her kindness and maybe see her smile one more time. 

His quiet tap of the door goes unnoticed, so he watches quietly as she folds a suit with the proper military precision. After several long seconds, he feels a bit guilty for eavesdropping and raps the doorframe twice. Peggy jumps, gasping before she turns. When she sees it’s him, Steve would swear he sees her expression soften just a bit. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Agent Carter.”

“That’s all right, Steve,” he sees her blush as she turns away. A moment later she’s turned back toward him, as put-together as she’s ever been. “Although I hear it’s Captain Rogers, now. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, I guess,” he shrugs, pulling a face as he leans against the door. “It seems a bit hollow, to be honest.”

Peggy frowns and crosses her arms. “Is this about earlier?” She shifts her weight from one leg to the other; she appears to be examining him. He feels caught out, as though she’s looking for him to cop to something he doesn’t know he’s done. Clearly seeing his confusion, she sighs and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, drops heavily to the side of her bed. “Colonel Phillips can be a right bastard sometimes.”

Steve can’t quite meet her gaze, Phillips’s words ringing in his ears. Words he’d heard his whole life, words he thought he’d finally put behind him: _You are not enough_. Peggy is on her feet again quickly, across the room in an instant. Her hand is on his shoulder and she’s looking up at him—the height difference still startles him; her nearness even more. She doesn’t hesitate, as though it’s no big deal, but Steve can’t remember being so close to a girl in private. Not for a long time, anyway.

“Listen to me, Steve,” she says sternly. Memories of a stolen kiss in an alleyway from Jeanette Waterson in the third grade give way to memories of Principal Burns reprimanding him for getting into another fight. He tries to melt into the door to prepare for the onslaught, but then he sees her face. Her voice is hard-edged and certain, but her expression is…soft. “What Phillips said—that you’re not enough? You’re not enough to stand in for a whole army, no. No one ever could be. But don’t you dare let that go to your head. Dr. Erskine believed in you. Stark thinks you’re a bloody miracle. And I…” With a heavy sigh, she leans back a fraction of an inch. “I think you’re a good man. That’s more than enough.”

Steve swallows the lump building in his throat. He hadn’t meant to bring it up, but she’s cut to the core of him, like a hot knife through butter. He tries a few responses in his head before lamely settling on a quiet “Thank you.”

Peggy turns back toward her bed, raking a hand through curls that had, only an hour ago, been perfectly pressed. She’s clearly been taking out her stress on her hairdo. She picks up folding the suit as though she’d never stopped. “Forgive me for being a bit forthcoming. I’m afraid the sudden change in plans caught me by surprise.”

“I understand,” Steve pushes out from the door with his shoulders, “Can I help at all?”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’m afraid not,” Peggy turns toward him with a small smile. “Just my unmentionables and toiletries left.” Steve nods, maybe a bit too vigorously. He feels his cheeks go red and wills his mind toward baseball team rosters.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll take my leave, then. I just wanted to say goodbye, and to thank you for everything.”

“No need to thank me,” Peggy turns after carefully placing her suit into a case. “I have a feeling we’ll see each other before long.”

“I sure hope so,” he steps toward her and holds out his hand. Peggy smiles and takes his hand, shaking it once. As he begins to pull away, she surprises him by tugging him toward her. Still holding his hand, she leans up on her toes, presses her free hand against his chest for support, and kisses his cheek.

“Take care of yourself, Steve.”

He manages to bleat, “You too, Peggy,” before ducking out of the room. He swears he hears her laugh before he’s out of earshot. The serum clearly had not effect on his confidence around a pretty girl. After rounding a corner, he rubs at his cheek and checks his fingers. He smiles at the red grease. He looks up and down the hall, making sure he’s alone. Once a few nurses round the opposite corner, he quickly touches his fingertips to his lips.

He hums a Glenn Miller tune all the way back to his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moments keep coming. The timing of this one is fairly evident from the fic itself, I think. I'm enjoying writing these goobers--they're pretty sweet. This one gave me a bit of trouble, but here it is: short and sweet.


	4. V-Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Peggy send each other letters

July 1st, 1943

Dear Peggy, 

I hope this letter finds you well. I’d ask how the weather is, but I bet you can’t tell me—top-secret location and all. For the first time in my life, I’m leaving the tri-state area. Yes, as we speak (well, write) I’m on a star-spangled bus headed to Cleveland. The show’s been doing well, so they’ve decided to start a national tour. It’s no thanks to my acting, believe me. The serum didn’t help with that. I’m still not sure about this whole thing, but it’s important to me to help where I can.

I’ve decided to start catching up on some novels while I’m on the road. I like to draw a lot, but that’s harder in the bus. I’ve always been a reader, all sorts of things, but I have to admit a soft spot for the low-brow stuff: mysteries, science fiction, fantasy, and adventure. I sort of figured if I was going to spend time in my imagination, I’d like it to be better than my real life. Now I’m some sort of science fiction guy in real life; maybe my teenage taste was preparing me all along., I think I’ll try something big and serious, maybe The Grapes of Wrath? Any suggestions from the other side of the Pond?

I think of you often because even though everyone on the team’s perfectly friendly, I haven’t really made any friends yet. I’m not sure I will, they treat me a little too preciously. That, or worse: like I’m some sort of dumb jock. Maybe that’s why I’m in the mood to read something big and serious…

I’d love to hear from you, but I know things are probably pretty hairy out there. I hope you don’t mind if I keep writing every so often.

Sincerely,

Steve

 

* * *

 

15 July 1943

Dear Steve,

I can’t tell you how pleased I was to receive your letter; I’ve been wondering how you’re handling your newfound fame. We’ve seen a few of the photos here—Howard is thrilled, of course.

I can tell you a bit about the weather, as my base location is no secret. The weather is as it ever is in London in the summer—the humidity’s rather like your East Coast, though it doesn’t get quite so hot. When I was in university, I used to visit London whenever I had a few days’ holiday. Unfortunately, the work keeps me busy enough that I haven’t been able to visit any of my old haunts. I heard my favorite café was hit a few months back, perhaps it’s better not to see.

I must admit I never much read for pleasure, not since I was in school, anyway. However, my current position seems to have a lot of downtime, so I will instead ask you for suggestions. I prefer something short and exciting, especially considering how quickly my circumstances can change.

I look forward to hearing from you again.

Warm regards,

Peggy

P.S. I hope you had a lovely birthday.

* * *

 

July 28th, 1943

Dear Peggy, 

You want reading suggestions from me? I’ve been thinking about it for a while, trying to come up with something that might impress you. But today I was in a bookshop downtown and found a copy of a book I loved as a kid. I started reading it again and thought it might fit your qualifications, even though you might think I’m a geek for it. (I am). It’s called A Princess of Mars by the same fellow who writes the Tarzan books. It’s a sort of space fantasy, so if that’s not your thing, I understand. But I like it a lot, and maybe you will, too. 

I thought of you the other night. I was in Chicago, and after the show a bunch of kids came up to have me sign stuff and pose for pictures. There was a little girl among all the boys, and I heard a couple of them making fun of her for being there, like she shouldn’t be. Well, I turned to those boys and said, “You know, have you heard about my very good friend Agent Carter who works with Army Intelligence? Agent Carter doesn’t have any super powers, but helps the army fight bad guys by discovering enemy secrets and helping plan missions. Agent Carter works hard and is helping our boys right now in Europe.” They were eating it up. “Yes sir,” and I looked right at the girl (found out later her name was Mary) and I said with a wink, “Agent Peggy Carter is a hero and we’re lucky she’s on our side.” Mary lit up like a Christmas tree. Then I told the boys they shouldn’t treat anybody like they don’t belong, because anyone who wants to help is a friend of mine. (I hope I didn’t give away any secrets, I think I was pretty vague on the details.)

Word on the street is I’m getting better at these shows, but I sure don’t know how I feel about that. They’re even talking about having me star in a couple of short films…I guess we’ll see how it goes.

Take care of yourself, Peggy.

Sincerely,

Steve

* * *

 

8 August 1943

Dear “Captain America,” 

I’ve found a copy of the book you recommended but I haven’t had the chance to read it yet. I thought it wouldn’t be polite to make you wait for a response. I’ll send my thoughts with the next letter.

We’ve watched a few of your films here—Brandt was eager to have Phillips see them. They’re rather silly, as I’m sure you know, and Phillips is being a bit dour about the whole thing. I found myself enjoying them, though, as it’s lovely to see your face. You aren’t as bad as you claim; in fact I’d go so far as to say that you cut a rather inspiring figure.

Thank you for the story about Mary, though you may have set her on a difficult road. Col. Phillips and Howard respect my work and position without question, but it seems to be an uphill battle for everyone else. I would think I might get used to it after a lifetime of being overlooked, but it never gets less frustrating. I know you remember what that feels like, Steve, and if I may be so bold, I hope you always remember it, even now that you’re “Captain America.” I’ve no doubt you will, but I thought it worth saying.

I did find that café, and it had been hit. I see a lot of destruction in this job, but I found myself very saddened by the loss of that little café. I understand no one was injured when it was bombed. Still, it’s odd what manages to move you when you think you’ve become invulnerable.

My, but this has all been a bit dour. I thought about scrapping it and starting again, but somehow I imagine you’d prefer the honest story. I hope you are in better spirits than I seem to be in.

Fondly,

Peggy

 

* * *

 

August 23rd, 1943

Dear Peggy, 

I hope you don’t take to calling me Captain America—I promise I’m just Steve, and I miss having someone around who knows it.

I’m real sorry to hear that you’re feeling down, and I hope you’re feeling a bit better by the time your big brown eyes take in this chicken scratch.

I’m on my way down to St. Louis now—Show after show after show. It was fun for a while, but I’m started to get a little bored of it all. I’ve done the same show at least fifty times now, and even though Brandt says my appearance really increases bond sales, I can’t help but feel like I could be doing more. At the same time, I’ve gotten to see a lot of the country. I did a photo shoot at Mt. Rushmore, and I saw the Mississippi River for the first time!

I’ve always loved the fall, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to get back to New York for it. There’s something about the crisp, cool air and the way the leaves change in Central Park that can’t be beat. Of course, I do like to be in New York at Christmastime, too. I used to go down with Bucky and his family and see the big trees, like the one at Rockefeller Center. I really love Christmastime, too. But gosh, it’s still around 90 degrees here and I’m starting to think about snowflakes and stockings, even worse of my when I think about all the fellows (and ladies) far from home and in the field. I guess I can’t be too hard on myself for dreaming about the past and wishing for the future—isn’t that the human condition?

The roadies for the show have been on these kinds of road trips a million times and they even seem bored of it…but the scenery through the windows can be inspiring. I wish you were around—while the shows might be getting dull, this country is so vast and so full of beauty, and it’d be great to share it.

Forgive me if I’ve been forward, waxed a bit too poetic, or if this whole thing is just plain incomprehensible. I should probably have gone to sleep hours ago.

Sincerely,

Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V-Mail, or Victory Mail, was a [nifty mailing process](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/V-mail) popular during the WWII. It didn't allow for long letters or attachments, but it cut delivery time almost in half. This is (part of) why the letters are on the short side.


	5. Flatbush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise visit and an amiable dinner leave the undauntable Peggy Carter a bit flustered.

September 1943

* * *

 

Peggy was pleased as punch that everything had worked out. A few calls got her backstage almost immediately, and her carefully practiced “I know what I’m doing” expression meant no one put up a fight when she waltzed into the dressing room like she belonged there. They told her Steve always signed autographs and posed for photos after the show, so she didn’t even have to miss the closing number. She’s fairly certain a good surprise won’t give him a heart attack any more, but just in case she leaves the door cracked. If he doesn’t pick up on that clue, he deserves the shock he’ll get.

The dressing room of the Flatbush Theater in Brooklyn is not particularly well appointed, but it does show evidence of Rogers’ increasing popularity. Particularly with the ladies, it seems. There is a small a pile of photos next to several bouquets of flowers, and there are more photos in the waste bin; she guesses those might be of a more…risqué nature than the headshots and portraits on the vanity. She imagines him blushing furiously, reacting to a salacious photo as though he touched a hot stove and chuckles.

She clears a few newspapers from the small, ragged sofa in the corner and makes herself comfortable. After a few moments, she hears heavy footfalls on the other side of the door, scuffing to a stop. She hears a small sigh, then a familiar voice.

“Miss, I appreciate your support, but I need my dressing room,” She sees his glove-clad fingers before the door swings open on Captain America, in all his glory. She can’t help grinning as his jaw drops, she’s not sure she’s ever seen the metaphor performed so literally.

Peggy stands and straightens her skirt, then looks up with a conspiratorial smile. “Captain Rogers,” she answers, doing her best impression of a schoolmarm, “I’m not sure that uniform is regulation.”

Within an instant, her arms are squeezed tightly to her sides and her feet are off the floor. He gently releases her with a quick apology, but their arms remain linked. “Gee, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he takes her in, eyes twinkling. “What are you doing here?”

“Phillips wanted me to pick up some documents first-hand, and I thought I’d take in a show while I’m at it,” she picks at a loose blue string on his shoulder. “I had to pull some strings to get a ticket.”

“If you’d have told me, I’d have given you a VIP seat!”

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see that delightful face you made,” Peggy laughs gently, Steve chuckling along. Their arms are still linked, and Peggy finds her heart racing at the nearness of him. He smells surprisingly fresh, considering he was just hoisting a motorbike over his head in a worn, and probably rarely washed, costume: a whiff of Barbasol, an undercurrent of Dial soap, and just a trace of salty-sweet sweat. She feels positively girlish for noticing. After a moment, Steve steps back and gestures toward the sofa where she’d been sitting earlier. He pulls off his mask, tosses it on the vanity, and turns the dressing chair around so he can face her.

“How long are you in town?”

“I leave tomorrow. Just a short stop, I’m afraid,” she tries not to laugh at his horrible hair, but he can tell she’s looking at it.

“Back to London?” he asks as he runs his hand through his hair. It only results in puffing up the matted mess, which doesn’t help things. He looks like a half-dressed but rather patriotic clown.

She nods, thoroughly charmed by his disheveled state. Even before the serum, he’d taken some pride in being put together—it was the only thing he had going for him, he’d once said. She feels a bit like she’s stumbled onto something quite private, but he’s grinning like a goon so it mustn’t be too embarrassing for him.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No, I haven’t. And I’m quite hungry come to think of it. The flight scrambled my schedule enough that I’m a bit mixed up.”

“Well, let me get changed. There’s a little place not too far from here that’s pretty great,” he pauses to look up at her. “If you’d like, that is. I don’t mean to presume.”

Peggy rolls her eyes.

* * *

They step out from the theater into the evening air, the oncoming chill of fall teasing the edges of the night. He’s changed into slacks and a crisp white shirt, and opted for a cardigan instead of a jacket. 

“I used to live about half a mile north east of here,” he points in the general direction then laughs softly to himself. “ _Slightly_ less upscale part of town, Brownsville, but full of life.”

“Yes, I recall you pointing out to me all the places you’d been in fights,” she smiles, remembering the short, skinny Steve who seems so far in the past. She finds it hard to believe it’s only been three months. She’s watched him move and talk this last hour or so, and it seems to her he’s still adjusting. Mostly he seems natural in his new frame, so confident and carefree; there are moments, though, when his shoulders hunch and his head falls and she sees the Steve she first met wearing this new body like an ill-fitting suit.

“Yeah…lots of alleyways and hidden corners to get beat into,” he answers. As he’s looking at the buildings and not at her, he can’t be blamed for failing to notice her reverie. “Strange being back now.”

They walk slowly, exchanging small talk about music, and Phillips, and Brandt, the dumb thing Stark said, the stupid additions to his already corny scripts. Despite her stomach’s insistence to the contrary, Peggy is almost disappointed when they arrive at their destination. Steve pauses in front of the building, contemplates the warm red glow of neon battling against the darkness of the brisk night.

 “I know it’s just a diner, and nothing fancy, but the food is great. I lived in the same building as the owner, Frank. His wife’s pierogi are out of this world,” He smiles at her gingerly, looking for all the world like a child trying to impress his teacher. 

“Compared to mess and field rations, I imagine I’ll appreciate Frank’s more than I would Le Pavillon. Besides,” she smiles at him conspiratorially, “I love a good dumpling.”

Steve opens the door, the bell tinkling brightly as Peggy walks through. A stocky man with thick dark hair and a large mustache appears from behind an aluminum door. He calls to Steve, wiping his hands on his apron before holding out a meaty palm that Steve shakes firmly. The two exchange pleasantries until the man realizes Steve is not alone. “Oh, I want you to meet my friend, Agent Carter,” Steve gestures at Peggy, looking embarrassed at his lapse in etiquette. “She’s in town on business. Agent Carter, this is Frank Nowak. He owns this joint.”

Frank holds out the same burly hand at Peggy, and shakes her hand vigorously when she offers it. “Agent Carter, welcome. Any friend of Stevie-boy here is welcome any time!” Frank ushers them in to the small, cozy space: vinyl-wrapped booths on one wall, a counter with stools on the other. Peggy eyes the case of pies and pastries as she walks by, mentally taking notes for dessert. She hasn’t had a proper dessert in ages.

The restaurant is quiet, as it is a little late. Their only company besides Frank and any other staff (who had yet to reveal themselves) is a middle-aged man at the counter hunched over a cup of soup. Frank seats them at one of the booths, pats Steve on the shoulder one last time, and walks back through the aluminum door.

“You know, Frank actually recognized me after the serum. He seemed to think I just had an impressive growth spurt,” Steve chuckles. A young woman pushes through the aluminum door, carrying two glasses of water and silverware to their table. Steve greets her and orders the pierogi plate and a Coca-Cola; Peggy decides to trust his taste buds and asks for the same. After she heads back toward the kitchen, Steve explains that Helena had been in his class at school. She had, of course, never given him the time of day.

“I imagine she regrets it now,” Peggy laughs, imagining poor teenage Steve trying to ask girls out on dates.

“I think she went out with Bucky once. That reminds me,” Steve slouches, chin propped up by his elbow on the table. “Do you know if they’ve gotten the Captain America comic books in Europe?”

“I think so, yes,” Peggy responds. She’d seen someone reading one once, but felt a bit forward asking to see it as she didn’t particularly know the soldier. She hadn’t seen one since.

“Oh, man. Bucky’s really gonna kill me,” Steve covers his face with a low moan.

“Whatever for?”

“Well,” he sighs, “The guy who made it, a kid named Jack, he asked me if I had any idea for the name of Captain America’s partner. I told him my best friend growing up was called Bucky Barnes.”

“And?” Peggy fails to see the problem. It seems like a nice tribute, after all.

“Have you seen the book yourself?”

“No, not up close.”

“Captain America has a partner all right,” Steve huffs. “It’s a kid. A sidekick. Named Bucky Barnes.”

“Oh,” Peggy laughs, perhaps a bit more heartily than she’d meant. What a shock it would be to open a comic book and perhaps think it odd that the hero has your friend’s name…only to discover the child sidekick is named after you. Yes, Steve probably would get punched. “Yes, I can see how that would be an issue.”

“It’s all happening so fast. It’s hard to take in. Sometimes I wish they’d just let me alone to read. Then I remember I’ve got it easy compared to the boys out on the front.”

“Speaking of reading,” Peggy ignores his dip into self-flagellation and digs through her satchel. “I’ve brought a gift!” She pulls the book out of her satchel and sets it on the table. The dust jacket is green with red letters and a fine spider’s web motif.  “The shop in London said it had just come out. I finished it on the plane, and I thought you might like it. Do you read Agatha Christie?”

“I haven’t yet, but I will now,” he picks up the book and immediately flips through the pages. “ _The Moving Finger_ , huh. She writes mysteries, right?”

“Yes,” Peggy smiles at her victory. “And this one features Miss Marple, who I rather like.”

“And here I don’t have anything in return!” Steve shrugs, sheepishly.

“It was a surprise visit, Steve. Besides,” she grins, catching her tongue between her teeth. “I wouldn’t have given it to you if I hadn’t finished it.” This was a lie, but she didn’t want him to feel put out. She had seen the book in a shop shortly before she left for New York and remembered their letters.

“Thank you, Peggy,” Steve’s smile is honest and bright, as though he’s generally surprised to receive anyone’s thought and attention. It’s a contagious sort of smile, but Peggy finds the earnestness behind it a bit sad, as well. To be so happy at so small a thing.

“I enjoyed your _Princess of Mars_ , by the way.”  


“Yeah?” He smiles, though he is momentarily distracted by Helena’s return. She removes their Coca-Cola bottles from the tray, then sets down their plates and leaves wordlessly.

“Yes. But it’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Peggy breathes in the scent of the dumplings—oil, onions, salt, cheese…and fresh cooked to boot. She hasn’t smelled anything so heavenly in her life.

“What do you mean?” Steve asks before stuffing a whole pierogi in his mouth. Peggy chuckles softly.

“Soldier looking for a cause, only to enter a foreign world with super strength and speed and end up finding his purpose?” She watches his eyes narrow and head tilt. He swallows, exaggeratedly, then nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it that way. Huh.”

They chat throughout dinner, save for the long stretches of silence as they savor their meal. They each order a dessert: a piece of cake for Steve, a slice of cream pie for Peggy. The man at the counter had long since left, leaving the two of them alone to enjoy the calm and quiet so often missing from their lives. Frank and Helena join them from time to time, never staying too long. Peggy thinks it must be on purpose, considering how often she sees Frank peeking out through the small round window of the kitchen door.

* * *

 

After an hour, Steve begins yawning. He apologizes profusely, but Peggy understands and shares the sleepiness. Steve insists on paying, calling it recompense for the book, and leaves a five dollar note on the table. He asks Frank to phone for a cab, and they step out into the night once again.

After several moments of amiable silence, Steve asks, “When do you head out tomorrow?”

“Sometime around noon,” Peggy sighs, mentally preparing for another long flight. “No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m glad we got the chance to talk. It’s been real nice to see you,” he smiles gently, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Good to see a friend.”

“Likewise,” Peggy smiles back, catching his gaze with hers. The eye contact continues for a moment too long, so she looks away, feeling an inexplicable flush rising to her cheeks. Quiet descends on them once again, this time a little less comfortably—at least for Peggy.

After several more minutes, the cab arrives. Steve leans over to give her a friendly hug, follows it with a light peck on her cheek. He rushes forward to open the door, ushers her in to the black cab. He closes the door behind her with a wave and another thank you. As the driver pulls away, Peggy fights a strange sensation to look back toward Steve one last time, blaming tiredness, nostalgia, and the general loneliness of wartime. She forces herself to look ahead, instructs the driver of her destination. She cannot help herself a moment later: she rubs the sleepiness from her eyes, but pauses a moment, fingertips tracing over the ever-so-slightly damp spot on her cheek.

His next letter arrives five days after she returns to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will likely be the last for a while. I definitely do want to return, but I'm finishing up my PhD and it's due in five weeks. So...writing attention goes elsewhere, alas.


	6. Small Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the small victories are the most meaningful of all.

_He’s late_ , she tells herself. _He’s late, that’s all_. It’s getting harder and harder to convince herself—the photos in her hand show that there’s been no activity since the Hydra Base blew up. No survivors crawling from the wreckage, no prison breaks or commandeered vehicles. Just wreckage; ruins and no word from Steve.

She knows her neck is on the line now, that she’s put everything she’s worked for in jeopardy. For what? Some sort of schoolgirl infatuation? They’ve only ever exchanged letters, and those were rather tame—about books and cafes and the weather. She stops, looks at the photos again and sighs deeply.

If anything, she’d resisted the feeling that pooled in her belly any time another letter arrived from America. Romance on the warfront is an inconvenience, a hindrance, and, particularly in her line of work, a liability. But he is a principled, brave, selfless man—the sort who inspires belief, who makes idle letters about books and cafes and the weather feel important, just because he cares. This isn’t just about puppy love—she _does_ believe in Steve. He’d earned her faith at Camp Lehigh, in Brooklyn, as he threw his shield into the truck, and when he jumped from the plane. She believed he could make a difference. _Believes_. She is not ready to let go of hope, not yet. She _believes_ he can make a difference.

Phillips’s tent looms before her now—no more putting it off. With a deep breath, she steps under the canvas only to hear Phillips dictate the last line of Steve Rogers’s condolence letter. As Phillips dismisses the corporal, she readies herself for the onslaught.

“We can't touch Stark, he's rich. And he's the army's number one weapons contractor,” Phillips pauses, his tone frighteningly cold. She had prepared for fire, not ice. “You are neither one.”

“With respect, sir,” she replies curtly. She refuses to show any sign of weakness or doubt. Not for Steve, not for herself—she would do the same thing again tomorrow if she had to. “I don't regret my actions. And I don't think Captain Rogers did, either.”

“What makes you think I give a damn about your opinions?” Phillips retorts, no longer able to hide the hot anger burning him up from the inside. Phillips tries cover it, to maintain a detached sense of control, but Peggy knows he wears hi heart his sleeve. “I took a chance with you, Agent Carter. And now America's Golden Boy and a lot of other good men are dead.” He stares at her, hard. “’Cause you had a _crush_.” 

There is the blow she was waiting for, the sweeping hit meant to take her out from the knees. He’s wrong, though, and they both know it. Peggy couldn’t have stopped Steve, even if she wanted to. Of course, she didn’t want to stop him. She _believes_ in him. “It wasn't that. I had faith.”

“Well, I hope that's a big comfort to you when they shut this division down,” Phillips deflates, and she can sense his frustration. Not just with her—with Erskine dying before his time, with Steve being the only super soldier, with the flak he got for bringing a female agent on board. He is angry for having to leave the 107th behind to a fate likely worse than death, and for looking like a coward because Steve was willing to do what he couldn’t. The silence sits heavily between them until it is broken by a commotion forming outside. 

Peggy hears a soldier running by the tent shout, “You won’t believe who it is!” Her heart leaps in her chest because she knows exactly who it is and he’s very late.

 

* * *

 

After a handful hours, the commotion has died down, or, more accurately, dispersed into smaller groups. After the darkness fell, units gathered in tents and around small fires, smoking and drinking. She hadn’t heard so much laughter since the war began—a hundred or so soldiers may seem like a small victory in the face of the millions of deaths since the war had started, but it was _their_ victory.

She wanders through the camp, finally finding Steve sitting on a stump by a fire, surrounded by a small group of soldiers. He’s less conspicuous out of his uniform, but even in a simple jacket and khakis he can’t quite help standing out from the crowd, let alone the motley crew sitting around him. She approaches the group slowly, coughing lightly to catch Steve’s attention. He turns toward her with a smile, though its character shifts from a Captain America swagger to a skinny Steve modesty when we sees it’s her. It’s utterly charming and she’s glad for the firelight to hide her blush.

“Hey, fellas,” Steve gestures for her to come forward. “This is Agent Peggy Carter.” She steps into the ring of light with a short nod, and the soldiers respond with a chorus of enthusiastic shouts. “Without her help I couldn’t have gotten to the HYDRA camp in the first place. Agent Carter, these men were key in the escape. There were a few others, too, but I think a couple have hit the hay. That’s Dum Dum Dugan,” a fellow with an intensely ginger mustache raises his glass, “Gabe Jones,” the young black soldier beside Dugan doffs his cap and winks, “and Frenchie Dernier.” The Frenchman nods, looking keenly at Peggy. She thinks she may recognize him—she’d done work with the French Resistance before signing on to Project Rebirth.

“Jean à de longue moustache,” she says in her best Parisian accent.

“Ah, bien sûr,” he smiles and touches his brow in a humble salute. Dugan punches Dernier lightly on the shoulder.

“Man, that froggy language always gets the girls!” He bursts into raucous laughter, but Jones looks confused.

“John has a long mustache? That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard!” Gabe's puzzlement sets Dernier off, and soon they are all giggling. Even Peggy indulges in a chuckle at Jones’s expression.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the celebrations,” she says after a moment. “But Colonel Phillips would like a word with Captain Rogers before it gets too late.” 

The soldiers around the campfire groan but Steve stands up with a shrug. “Gotta follow orders. Don’t get into any trouble, boys.” He walks to the edge of the fire’s light, pausing beside her. She smells a bit of alcohol on him—he doesn’t seem drunk, but he smiles sloppily as he gestures toward the officers’ tents. “Lead the way, Agent Carter.”

 

* * *

 

 

After a few quiet moments she looks over her shoulder toward Steve. “I didn’t see Sgt. Barnes with you.”

“No,” Steve scratches the back of his head, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. “When I found him, he was in some sort of lab. The medics want to make sure they didn’t…do stuff.”

“I’m sorry,” Peggy slows down, turning more fully toward him. “He looked all right earlier.”

“Yeah, they didn’t lop off any limbs or anything,” Steve shrugs and produces a half-hearted attempt at a smile.  “Just glad I got there when I did.”

The silence falls again as they walk between the rows of tents. Every so often, one will be open and lit up, its occupants laughing or chatting. It’s a quiet night, everyone lost in their own worlds, taking advantage of the rare chance to celebrate. Under any other conditions, she would’nt have have dared pulling a fellow officer into her tent after hours.

Which is exactly what she does.

He doesn’t know any better, so she takes advantage of his ignorance and closes the tent flap behind him then flips on the bare bulb lamp near the entrance. Steve pauses, looking at his surroundings.

“This isn’t Colonel Phillips’s tent, is it?” His eyes twinkle in the direction of the bomber jacket and scarf carefully hung in the corner.

“No, I’m afraid I’ve been a bit dishonest on that front,” Peggy shifts around Steve’s hulking frame and pulls a folding chair away from her desk. His expression is, quite frankly, hilarious—he blushes so furiously his face is nearly purple, and when he swallows his eyes almost bug out of his head. She’d love to wind him up more, but it would simply be cruel at this point. “I wanted to get a chance to speak with you before tomorrow.”

“Why bring me here?” Steve stands stiffly, fists relaxing slightly as his color returns to normal.

“Tomorrow Phillips _will_ want to speak with you. _And_ Phillips’s superiors in the Army, and the rest of the SSR top brass, not to mention Senator Brandt, the press…” Steve grimaces and nods. “Sit,” Peggy gestures toward her neatly made cot, and he complies, landing heavily.

“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead,” he sighs. “But you’re probably right.”

“That goes without saying,” she smirks. “I’m sorry if I’ve startled you. I just…I thought it would be good to talk before everything goes pear-shaped. Are you all right?”

“All in one piece.”

“I can see that,” she rolls her eyes with a smile. “But a battle like that can take tolls beyond your limbs.” Steve nods, eyes glazing over. After a pause, he sighs.

“When I was leaving, I saw a lot of men who’d been shot down. It was the first time I’d seen a dead body—let alone nearly a dozen.”

“It gets easier. Unfortunately. I speak from experience.”

“That’s both comforting and terrifying,” Steve laughs, a hint of cynicism creeping at its edge .

“I’m afraid you’ll see a lot more now that you’ve fought your way to the front lines.”

“Yeah, I guess so. The problem is I saw something worse. I saw Schmidt.”

“Johann Schmidt?” Peggy gasps. No one in the SSR has ever seen Schmidt and lived to tell the tale—everything they know is rumors and whispers.

“He’s…some kind of monster. His face looks like some kind of red skull.”

“I’ve seen his photos—he’s not particularly handsome, but I wouldn’t go so far as…” She’s heard tell of him being more than he seems, but no one knew exactly what that meant.

“He pulled his face off in front of me.”

“Oh,” Peggy reels back, shaking at the thought.

“I’d never seen anything like it. He said…he said he was Erskine’s greatest creation.” Peggy shifts her chair so she can face him more directly. “He said the two of us were the same, that we’ve both left humanity behind.”

“You know that’s not true, Steve,” Peggy leans forward and covers his fist with her hand. For a fraction of a second he tenses, then he relaxes. She curls her fingers around the side of his hand, skimming the edges of his palm.

“Is it, though? I’m a science experiment, and I’m pretty new, all things told. Who knows what will happen?”

“Whatever happens, you’ll be Steve. That’s the important part. That’s why Erskine chose you. Your powers don’t define you—your heart does.” With her free hand, Peggy turns Steve’s palm right side up. Slowly, she pulls his hand toward her, holding it gently between hers. His hand is so much larger than hers, his fingers heavy and thick but somehow seem still nimble.

“Thanks,” Steve whispers, transfixed by the sight of his hand in hers.

“You don’t need to thank me for speaking honestly.”

“Sure I do. I’ve just spent a couple of months with people who didn’t. But not just for that. Thanks for everything, for believing that I could do it in the first place.” Carefully and slowly, Steve places his free hand on Peggy’s. She can feel it trembling.

“Since I saw you dive on that grenade, I’ve known you’d do whatever you needed to do in order to protect people who deserve it. That’s what makes you so…heroic.”

“Or at least self-destructive,” Steve chuckles.

“Quite,” she clucks, “You are a bit more foolhardy than I’d like.”

“It’s worked so far,” he smiles smugly, and she cannot help but laugh.

“Well, I don’t know where they’ll be sending you or what they’ll have you doing, but they all know they can’t keep you from the War any longer. Promise me you’ll be careful,” Peggy can’t bring herself to look up at him. She’s being quite vulnerable, and doesn’t want to risk getting too emotional. “There are people who care about you and would like to see you survive this war. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“People?” Steve cocks an eyebrow at her.

“Stark, for one. He considers you his greatest achievement,” she looks up now, expression playful. “I suppose Barnes wouldn’t want you to die, either.”

“Well, for Stark’s sake, I’ll be careful,” he smiles brightly.

Peggy rolls her eyes but senses a familiar feeling deep in her belly. She remembers how she felt— _could it really have been this morning?_ —when she thought she’d lost him, when she’d suffered the ache of lost potential. She’d managed to keep those fears at bay long enough for him to miraculously reappear—she had to; the power of it could have been devastating.

His appearance in her life had been a revelation. It was not that the manner of his appearing was a surprise, but the way he had so quickly and completely captured her imagination was an epiphany. After he’d kissed her cheek in Brooklyn, she’d redoubled her efforts even though she knew they were doomed to failure. It doesn’t matter how vigorously she denies it: she fancies Steve Rogers.

She gives in, leans forward, and kisses Steve squarely on his lips. It’s not a long kiss, but she does linger a moment, moving her bottom lip against his. When Steve doesn’t respond, she pulls back, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks. It’s nothing compared to Steve, though. He’s gone purple again. It takes all her concentration not to break into laughter—it might embarrass him and that isn’t her aim. She thinks for a moment about apologizing, but decides against it. She’s not sorry in the least, and she doesn’t see the point in lying. She’d do it again if she didn’t think it would kill him.

“Wow,” he whispers.

“I’d also very much prefer you staye alive,” she replies quietly.

“Well, then, I’ll do my best to do that,” he smiles, shaking himself from his reverie to look at her. “I’ve, uh…You…That was…” He looks down, breaking eye contact with Peggy, and runs his hand through his hair. “No one’s ever kissed me before,” he mumbles.

“I find that hard to believe,” Peggy grins at him. She finds his befuddlement ridiculously sweet.

“You saw me before,” he shrugs. “Most gals wouldn’t look at me twice, let alone kiss me.”

“The serum didn’t change your lips one bit. Their loss, I suppose,” she flashes him a devilish smile; he turns a dark shade of red—not quite purple this time. They spend a few moments smiling at each other; at any other moment Peggy probably would have described their expressions as quite absurd. But it was a night for reveling in whatever small victories one could claim, and Peggy has one of her own to celebrate.

The sound of someone stumbling into the tent next door shakes her from her reverie. Peggy checks her watch—it’s much later than she’d guessed.

“What time is it?” Steve asks.

“Nearly midnight,” she answers with a sigh.

“Oh, it’s late. I should probably hit the hay.” Steve stands up, stretching his legs as he does so—the cot was a bit short, considering his height. He stretches, then adjusts his sleeves and pant legs. Peggy stands as well, watching his careful movements. In the morning, he will be Captain America once again, this time a hero rather than a sideshow. She doesn’t know when she’ll see him again. Maybe Phillips will convince the Army he should be an SSR agent, but there’s no telling where they’ll want him to be.

“Do you know how to find your way back?”

“Yeah, it’s not too hard.”

“I can take you back if you’d like.”

“No, that’s all right.”

The words tumble from both of them almost simultaneously. Steve walks over to the tent’s front, fiddling with the edge of the canvas. “I’ll let you know what they’re doing with me as soon as I can.”

“I’d like that very much,” she breaks eye contact, looking away to pull idly at a loose string on her jacket.

“Good night, Peggy,” he says. He gazes at her intently, she can almost hear his mind working. The feeling in her knees makes her glad there’s a chair right behind her.

“Good night, Steve,” she replies, not much louder than a whisper. Steve straightens his shoulders and swallows, then takes two long strides toward her. He gently rests a hand on each shoulder then bends down and brings his lips to hers. It’s a hard, unskilled kiss—more a bump than a caress—and over far too soon. He nods, and she thinks she hears him say good night once more, but he turns and stalks out of the tent before she gets a chance to respond.

Sometimes the small victories are the most meaningful of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from hiatus! I've still got some work to do (I have to defend the dissertation), but the wait in between shouldn't be so long. Plus, with Age of Ultron and the news from Civil War and Peggy Carter Season 2, the ideas are a-flowing.


	7. SNAFU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had, quite definitely, messed it up.

Steve can’t recall ever seeing anything—let alone anyone—so beautiful. He can barely breathe, let alone speak. Caught in her eyes, he might as well have been pinned to the wall like some sort of star-spangled butterfly. It’s not as though it’s the fanciest dress he’s ever seen, but she was wearing it, and it seems to effect the movement of time around her. Everything slowed down, became quiet. The only thing more breathtaking than that dress was the way she looked at him—like he was the only guy in the room. He just didn’t understand how someone like her could look at someone like him like…that.

The only reason Steve wasn’t right on her heels, following her like a lost puppy, was because he’d gotten lost for a moment in his reverie. It was probably for the best—he doesn’t want to undercut her authority by flirting in front of a bar full of junior officers. They hadn’t had a chance to talk since she’d kissed him in her tent, not privately, anyway—just glances and shy smiles in between orders. He had to report to Phillips, fill out a million forms, organize and gather his squad, and—of course—catch up with Bucky. He’d been released by the medics this morning, and now…he was saying something.

“I’m invisible. I’m turning into you. This is some kind of horrible dream,” Bucky shakes his head.

“Don’t take it so hard,” Steve smiles and signals for another whiskey. “Maybe she’s got a friend.” 

“Hold on,” Steve's still smiling like a goon at nothing in particular, but he feels Bucky's eyes zero in on him. Bucky looks out the door and back to Steve, narrowing his eyes. “Woah, woah, hold on.” He slams his glass on the bar; Steve jumps, uncertain of what Bucky is seeing. 

“What’s up, Buck?” 

“Are you two a thing?” Bucky punches Steve in the shoulder. 

“What do you mean, a ‘thing’?” He absently rubs at his shoulder—Bucky hit him hard. 

“I guess you get a lot of that now, with that,” Bucky says as he gestures at Steve. 

“With…what?” 

“All the…you.” 

“I guess so,” Steve chuckles. “I haven’t paid too much attention. Been busy.” 

“With Agent Carter?” Bucky grins like he's bluffed his way to a winning hand.

“What?” Steve nearly chokes on the last sip he’d taken, the whiskey vapors burn the back of his throat. “No. Of course not.” 

“Does Steve Rogers have a girlfriend?” Bucky’s reveling in Steve’s discomfort now; the way Bucky’s looking at him—accusing but jocular—makes him even more uncomfortable. He can feel his forehead growing hot and imagines he’s a nice shade of cardinal. 

“No!” Steve drains his glass, grimacing from the sudden burn. “I mean, not that I wouldn’t…We’ve worked together a lot. Peggy is a fantastic agen…” 

“Peggy?” 

“Yeah, short for Margaret. It’s a pretty common name."

“Right, and distinctly not ‘Agent Carter.’” 

“She’s a good friend.”

“She wasn’t looking at you like a friend.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve sets his mouth in a straight line, then finishes off his drink.

“You weren’t looking at her like a friend, either,” Bucky quips, but when he sees Steve’s expression, he rolls his eyes. He waves his hand in the air at Steve, shooing him away. “Fine, fine. Whatever.” 

Steve claps Bucky on the shoulder and starts back toward the main bar area, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he goes. When he crosses the threshold, Bucky calls his name. Steve turns on his heel. “She’s a hell of a dame,” Bucky swallows the remaining whiskey is one great gulp. “Don’t mess it up.”

* * *

 

He had, quite terribly, messed it up. He honestly didn’t know what fondue was, but he also didn’t really think anything was going on between Peggy and Howard. But her quick judgement hurt his pride, and he lashed out. He imagined it was worse that he tried to pretend nothing had happened later that afternoon…in front of Howard. 

He’d tried several times to apologize, but Peggy had been careful to avoid him. When they did have to interact, she quickly cut off any attempt at any conversation outside of work parameters. He decided he’d have to resort to desperate measures, and more than that, decided to borrow a play from Peggy’s book. He’d traded a young private a chocolate bar to find Peggy and tell her Phillips wanted to talk with her. 

Steve was waiting in the maps room where Phillips spent most of his time during the day. He knew Phillips was in meetings all day with the special squad he’d picked. There was a chance that Peggy knew this, but he was, after all, desperate. After about ten minutes, he heard the door click open. He turns in time to see Peggy roll her eyes and begin to close the door. 

“Agent Carter, please,” he calls out, quickly stepping toward the door. Peggy pauses and sighs. She walks to the map table, pulls out a chair, and sits. 

“You have two minutes,” she sets her folder on the table and rests her hands on her knees. 

“I don’t even need that much,” Steve reaches the table in two large steps and pulls a chair out for himself. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m really sorry."

“You’ve no need to apologize. It’s not as though I have any say over who you kiss.”

“That’s,” Steve stammers and feels himself beginning to blush. “It’s…it’s not so much about Private Lorraine, actually.”

“Oh?” Peggy raises an eyebrow at him. Her eyes sparkle mischievously as he begins to stammer. 

“I mean, I didn’t entirely want to kiss her. She kind of jumped on me. But I didn’t really pull away, either. I’m…I’m not used to women paying me any attention.”

“You should get used to it, if the chatter around camp means anything,” Peggy’s eyes soften ever so slightly.

“I…oh.” Steve pulls at his collar. “But, I hope you know, that wasn’t…it didn’t mean…”

“I know,” Peggy looks at him, her expression inscrutable. 

“I’m sorry for what I said about Howard. I know you’re always being accused of riding someone else’s coattails, and I know you hate it. It was a low blow and there’s no excuse for it. I was being petty.”

“Thank you,” her whole face softens; he watches the tension disappearing.

“I just…I want to be friends.”

“We are friends, Steve,” with a heavy sigh, Peggy uncrosses her legs and leans toward him. She rests her fingers on his forearm for just a moment, then pulls her arm back into her lap. “And I’m sorry, too. You weren’t the only one who poked at a tender spot. I even knew what Lorraine was up to; she’d bet the girls she could get a kiss from you by the end of the week. But still, I was…surprised.” 

“Me, too,” Steve frowns and shrugs up his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Well,” Peggy smiles wryly, shifting in her seat. “If you’re really sorry, you’ll make up the five dollars I bet against her.” 

Steve chuckles, knocks on the tabletop. “Can we call it even-stevens for the Hershey’s bar I paid Private Johns?”

“Fair enough. Especially as I knew you’d be here.”

“You came anyway?” Steve looks up from the table at Peggy. He feels a warmth bubbling up in his chest, fizzing its way to his brain. He doesn’t care how wry the smile or cheeky the answer, he thought he might have lost this—pushed her too far, been too much of an oaf. But here they are, joking and laughing, poking fun and maybe even flirting (he’s still not sure what counts).

“I thought I’d punished you long enough,” she responds quietly. He can sense she’s still a bit guarded. It only makes sense and he can’t blame her. She shouldn’t, and she wasn’t going to—but she wasn’t going to punish him forever, either. He’s actually kind of proud of her for not taking his guff. “I should be getting back to the office,” Peggy stands, then straightens her jacket and skirt. Steve watches the practiced precision of her movements. 

“Before you go, I had one more question,” Steve stands as well and Peggy pauses with her hand on the door knob. “My new unit needs an intelligence liaison. It has to be someone who has experience working with the various rebel groups across Europe. Someone whip-smart, stubborn enough to give me a fight; who is willing to let us be stupid sometimes, but knows when to say no. Someone I know I can trust with my life, and the lives of my men. I’ve got to give Phillips a candidate by this evening.”

“I could drum up a few names, if you’d like,” Peggy answers as she swings the door open. Steve imagines her mind is already conjuring a list, so he steps beside her and hold the door open.

“I don’t want to trouble you,” Steve answers, “So I’d rather you just say you’ll take the position.” He holds out his free hand toward her. Peggy smiles and shakes her head. “I spoke with Phillips this morning,” Steve shrugs and holds his hand higher. “He’s on board if you are. Would you like to be a Howling Commando?”

“Is that what you’re calling yourselves?” Her eyes flicker from his face to his outstretched hand. “A bit silly, isn’t it?” 

“It was Brandt’s idea, but I kinda like it. Anyway, you’re avoiding the question.” He’s been a bit cocky, but realizes she might not want to join the team. She’s facing enough pushback from the military brass as it is—it would make sense if she wanted to avoid any more time in the spotlight. He brings his outstretched hand up to his head, scratches the nape of his neck in a lame attempt to retract it as naturally as possible. He’s keenly aware of how miserably he’s failing in that regard. “I mean, if you don’t want to, I understand. You’re busy enough.”

“Of course I’ll join your team, you dolt,” Peggy smiles and shakes her head. Steve feels the crush of embarrassment begin to evaporate. 

“You don’t need to think about it?”

“No; Phillips already spoke with me about it this morning.” Without looking at him, she reaches up brushes some lint from his shoulders, then straightens the knot of his tie. Her touch, however chaste, chases out the lingering clouds of doubt in his mind—no more dark, Peggy-less dreams for Steve. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 0800,” she shoots him a cheeky look, pats his chest, and walks through the door. Not for the first time, Steve finds himself feeling rather starstruck. He’s not sure even Betty Grabler and her million dollar legs could make him feel quite so high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I RETURN! Post-graduation left me with a prolonged brain dead stage. Hopefully I'm over that hump.


End file.
